


Half-way All the Way

by ACatWhoWrites



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-04
Updated: 2011-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACatWhoWrites/pseuds/ACatWhoWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Francis struggle at a halfway house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-way All the Way

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt from the what_the_fruk lovefest. This is just a beginning, a bit on Arthur and how his first meeting with Francis goes.
> 
> I do not know how halfway houses are strictly set up. They vary, and I found some in England where they're run by the church. Some are run by social workers, volunteers, and house anyone from runaway kids to middle-aged alcoholics. I don't know if they're divided by age or what, so I don't think I'll focus on the actual facility too much.

“Alright, Arthur, turn out your pockets and take off your shoes.” 

Rolling his eyes, Arthur Kirkland shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, pulling the lining out. Lint and a couple candy wrappers fall to the ground at his feet, but nothing incriminating. Without bothering to untie the loose laces, he toes a heel of his boot off and shakes it off his foot, doing the same with his other boot. The halfway-house worker bands at the waist and picks them up, turning them upside down and shaking them.

Satisfied that he had not hidden any illegal contraband in them, she nods and hands them back. “How was class?”

“Same as usual.” So ended the polite chit-chat. For the months Arthur had lived at the small halfway-house in a London suburb, he had made no attempt to be anything but strangers with all the workers and other “boarders.” 

Bloody inmates, is what they mean. Arthur dropped his boots just inside his bedroom door, elbowing the door shut as he shrugged out of his studded jacket. He caught sight of himself in the mirror that hung on the door and briefly touched the fading bruise below his eye. Perhaps he would one day learn to keep his mouth shut and not antagonise boys twenty centimetres taller than him and packed with as much muscle as a WWE wrestler.

In the meantime, he would continue to pick fights and take on bets.

He stripped off his uniform, pulling on a faded band T-shirt and ripped jeans. Sitting on his bed, he picked up his left boot and flipped it over, pulling the heel away from the sole. A slightly smushed package of Benson and Hedges fell onto his lap. After a few times of being caught sneaking “illegal contraband” into the halfway house, Arthur had taken to sneakier methods.

Today was the day the group decided to go on a collective outing after the younger boarders’ classes. Arthur opted out without explanation, but the head of the house simply nodded and accepted that if Arthur wanted to be alone, he was old enough to be trusted.

That was something they tried teaching at the halfway house: trust. 

Those who were at the house were potential undesirables. Drug addicts, runaways, delinquents, orphans, and anyone else who did not quite fit in with society. The volunteers--nuns at some institutions, social workers in others--worked to rehabilitate and reintroduce them back to society as acceptable, upstanding men and women.

Arthur, an orphan for nearly three years, had been repeatedly pulled off the streets for drug use. Time and again he ran away from his social worker and foster homes he was placed in until he was sent to the halfway house outside London. There, he found that there were still people who were not afraid of a punk with green hair, spiked jacket, leather combat boots and the loving attitude of an alligator. They soon found equal--precarious--footing, a way to keep balance and order without tearing down the entire house.

He went to school in London, earning less than stellar grades, and spent the rest of his time at the house. He didn’t interact with the other boarders, although some of the ones around his age had tried to introduce themselves a couple times. They soon gave up on his permanent cynicism and sour attitude and stuck to one another in slowly rehabilitating company.

Arthur heard the head of the house gathering everyone in the foyer and snorted. He’d wait until they left and then go out to the back porch. He could smoke out there without alerting anyone to the smell. 

Watching the clock’s hand tick three places seemed sufficient enough time. Sauntering out of is room barefoot, he pulled open the sliding back door, closing the screen behind him, and climbed onto the porch railing, something he had been told numerous times to not do. He leaned back against the support beam, propping a foot up on he rail and lighting a cigarette with the Zippo from his jacket pocket.

“Be careful so you don't fall.”

Arthur started at the soft voice. He caught his lighter before it fell into the bushes. Sitting up and leaning forward, he turned to look behind him. At the other end of the porch was a long-haired blonde boy, also sitting on the railing but dangling his long legs towards the floor. His clothes looked expensive but rather worn.He was pale and had a kind smile. Arthur hated it. 

“Look who's talking, jackass,” Arthur retorted around his cigarette.

The boy chuckled, a sound barely audible but touching Arthur's ears on the breeze. He hopped to the deck and put his hands in his pockets. “Now, now, we have only just met – barely that. You don't even know my name; this is not the time to be throwing insults.”

Arthur exhaled smoke irritably. “Oh, bugger off. . .”

“Non, non, non...” He shrugged and sidled around Arthur, leaning his hip against the railing at the punk's feet. “My name is Francis.”

“. . . Fag.”

Francis' smile twitched with amusement. “Pleasure to meet you, Fag.”

“Oh, you bloody...! My name is Arthur. Not Artie. Not Art. Arthur. Nice to meet you; now fuck off.” He flicked his cigarette at the boy and crossed his arms, slouching as much as he could without losing his balance.

Francis’ smile slipped to an almost consoling frown. “You really hate it here. . .”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Misery loves company, you know.”

“Then go bother them. I prefer to be alone. Always have...” Arthur dropped his hand into the bush beneath him, tickling the little creature's wings that sat there. He always saw things, even as a small child, that were apparently invisible to everyone else. When he was high, they were even more numerous, and they seemed to enjoy his company. He would find drugs where he could just so he could be with new friends, so they wouldn't be lonely.

“That sounds quite depressing, actually.”

“Well, you’ll soon learn that I’m just a depressing kinda guy. I don’t like being with other people,” he shifted subconsciously, moving his foot away from Francis, “and I won’t make exceptions for bloody frogs or anybody else.”


End file.
